


out of order

by fluffysfics



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, bit of a character study, gratuitous references to places in Europe, it’s just lots of the Master being sad, no offence to small southern English towns, the Master’s time on Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26394439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: The Master resolves to stay away from the Doctor while he’s trapped on Earth.It takes a year for the Doctor to find him. And then, it keeps happening, no matter where he goes.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	out of order

_**Bern, Switzerland, 1944** _

He hears the Doctor before he sees him. It’s the one with the scarf, with the mad curls and the deep, sonorous voice that echoes from the top of the Zytglogge. No one should be up there, but rules have never applied to him. 

It’s the first time the Master has seen the Doctor since Paris. The rush of emotions makes him sick to his stomach, the coffee and pastry on the small table in front of him suddenly a lot less appealing than they were thirty seconds ago. 

“...Careful, Adric, we’re very high up. We’ll need to take the...” 

The wind snatches away the rest of his words, but that was all the Master had needed to hear. It’s been a year. One year out of seventy seven. 

In that time, he has escaped from the Nazis twice, fled Paris, escaped the Nazis one more time, and hitchhiked across France all the way to Switzerland. He has killed, he has hypnotised, he has wheedled and charmed and bribed, and now he has a safe place to sit out the rest of the war. 

He’s still glaring at his coffee when the Doctor’s voice catches his ears again, this time much closer. 

“...seem to be rather lost, ah well. I’ll ask this young fellow for directions.” 

And then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and the Master looks up into the smiling face of the person who stranded him in a city full of fascists. Younger. Curlier. But the eyes have never changed. Not to him. 

“I don’t suppose you could point us in the direction of the Berner Münster?” 

The Master clenches his hand into a fist so tightly that his knuckles crack. If the Doctor notices, he doesn’t say a word. Mutely, he unclenches again, and points his finger down the road. If he speaks, he will say something he shouldn’t, and this isn’t an argument for the Doctor’s pets to overhear. 

“Thank you, dear fellow.” The Doctor pats him on the shoulder, and sweeps off, Adric trailing behind him like a puppy. 

The Master waits until they’re both out of sight, then swipes his plate and coffee cup off the table like a particularly angry cat. He hears the young woman behind the countertop inside the shop exclaim in annoyance, and storms off before she can run out and berate him. 

There’s a sick, self-destructive urge to run after the Doctor and scream at him, even though he wouldn’t have the first clue what the Master is on about. 

One entire _fucking_ year, and the abandonment still stings as though it was yesterday. 

——

_**London, England, 1952** _

The second time he sees the Doctor, he really should have seen it coming. 

It’s the day of the Queen’s coronation. Every damn human in the country is glued to a tiny television, watching an absurdly rich woman be paraded around and given a crown. The streets are empty. 

The Master is out for a walk, because that’s just about the only way he can calm his thoughts these days. Get walking, focus on the rhythm of his feet and stare at the floor until his brain goes quiet. It’s nice. It’s peaceful. One of the few peaceful things about this damned city. 

And then, he tastes electricity. Frowning, the Master looks up. The broadcast mast of Alexandra Palace looms above him, and arcs of electricity seem to be coming out of it. No- feeding _into_ it. 

He briefly considers intervening, or at least poking his nose in to see what’s going on. This is clearly alien, and it’s probably not very good for the local area. 

The thought dies before he can take even a step. There’s yelling, up on the mast. A man, clinging to it, and another man climbing up towards him. That one is wearing a trench coat that flaps in the wind, and it is unmistakably the Doctor. 

Eight years without one encounter, and now he spots him while out on a walk, of all times. The Master scowls, kicking at the brick wall outside of the broadcast station and flipping the bird at the mast. A very useful human gesture, that. 

Maybe he needs to move out of London for a while, because now he feels _sick_. Is he ever going to get over Paris? Honestly, it seems unlikely. 

——

_**The South Downs, England, 1958** _

He holes himself up in some quaint little southern town called Petersfield. There’s no fields and no one named Peter in the vicinity- instead, his back garden is acres and acres of rolling chalk hills. Endless ground to walk through without the slightest chance of being disturbed by the Doctor. 

It’s incredibly boring, and the Master hates it. 

At least in London, there was nightlife. There were people, places, _things_ , even the odd alien. He doubts any aliens will be interested in the weekly farmer’s market in the town square. To the locals, _he’s_ practically an alien. A British-Indian man from The Big Scary North; they’ve never seen anything like him. 

If only they knew how much of an alien he _really_ was. That would be fun. The Master doesn’t think he’s done anything fun in the whole five years since he’s moved here. 

But at least he hasn’t run into the Doctor. That shakes him to the core every time it happens; he needs time _alone_. He needs to recover. And there is no risk of bumping into the Doctor in a place as quiet and sleepy as this. 

Ironically, the Master has this thought on a walk through the South Downs, approximately five seconds before he sees the TARDIS materialise on top of the nearest hill. The sound of the engines reaches his ears a moment later, and he freezes on the spot. 

The smart thing to do would be to sprint back to the village and hide, but he’s never been much of a runner. 

Traitorous feet walk him up the hill, because he is curious. The Master hates himself for it with every step he takes, but he has to know if there’s some alien threat here that he somehow hasn’t noticed. Maybe fifteen years on Earth have dulled his senses. 

It’s the Doctor with the curly hair and the vacant expression and the poncy velvet suit jacket. He’s hanging out of his TARDIS door with a mild frown on his face, and behind him, there’s an concerned-looking Indian woman with shoulder-length hair, and a skinny, scruffy twig of a man in a leather jacket. The Master doesn’t have the faintest clue who these people are, and he doesn’t intend to learn. 

“Oh- you there, young man! Hello! Where are we?” The Doctor waves him down, and the Master stops; six feet back from the TARDIS doors. 

“The South Downs, 1958,” he answers, folding his arms. 

It would be easy to rush through the oblivious group, shove them out of the doors and commandeer the TARDIS. Drive it all the way to 2020, and skip the entire rest of this torture. 

“Usually you have to ask them for the year. That’s new. We’re right off target, though,” the woman comments. 

“Mm...Fitz, Anji, go back inside,” the Doctor says, gently flapping a hand. The two humans both look at each other, roll their eyes, and obey. The Doctor steps out, and the TARDIS door shuts. Suddenly his plan is impossible, and the Master regrets not acting whilst he had the chance. “Do I know you, dear boy?” 

Of all the Doctors to recognise a man they’d spoken to _once_ in Switzerland fourteen years ago, the Master had not been expecting it to be this one. 

“You don’t,” he says shortly. Maybe he’ll move up to Birmingham after this. Or Manchester. You probably didn’t get many aliens in Manchester. Then again, if he could encounter the Doctor in the dull, sleepy south of England, he wasn’t sure he’d be safe anywhere. 

“No, I’m sure I do...” The Doctor squints at him, and steps closer. The Master steps back. Faint recognition dawns in clear blue eyes. “Switzerland...?” 

He doesn’t sound sure. This version of the Doctor is never sure of anything. He’ll probably smack his head on the TARDIS door two minutes from now and forget the last three years of his life. 

“You don’t know me. I’m unremarkable,” the Master insists, and this time he layers the faintest trace of hypnotic compulsion into his voice. He doesn’t like to do that to the Doctor, but he _can’t_ be recognised. Not now. 

The Doctor blinks, and a distracted smile drifts over his lips. “You’re not unremarkable, dear boy. No one’s unremarkable.” He reaches out, pats the Master’s cheek, and ambles back to the TARDIS. 

The Master hefts a fist-sized rock and hurls it at the side of the ship, but a wind whips through his hair, and the TARDIS dematerialises just in time for the rock to sail harmlessly through it. 

He screams with frustration, with anger and misery and _hopelessness_ , and the sound echoes uselessly through the chalk hills. 

He can’t stay here. 

——

_**Venice, Italy, 1974** _

The Master is restless. He’s been travelling around Europe for years, although he refuses to go any further afield than that. America is awful, Russia is cold, most of the rest of the inhabited parts of Earth are unconscionably hot, or wet, or otherwise not very nice climate-wise. Australia was a nightmare when he lived there as O, so he certainly won’t be going back. Europe is just barely tolerable, most of the time. He still hates large amounts of it. 

At least he’s learned to appreciate the culture. Good food, nice architecture. Humans do like their art, it seems, and he can get behind that. 

He’s perched on a low stone bench in the Piazza San Marco, soaking in the scenery and the late-spring sunshine, when a small group of figures walks into view. He groans audibly, his hearts dropping through his stomach. Twenty two years and not a peep, and now he sees possibly the second-worst incarnation of the Doctor he could have run into. 

“These marble lions, Susan, were donated by a man named Mocenigo, in 1722. Look, but don’t _touch_ , dear girl.” 

The Doctor goes on, giving Susan something of a history lesson whilst two older humans wander off a little to look around. 

The Master remembers when he’d thought that this body of the Doctor’s was his first. This is the body that played with him when they were children, slept with him when they were older. The body that he fell deeply, irrevocably in love with. He stares, helpless, tears welling up in his eyes. 

He remembers when Susan was a baby, when she’d had a different name. Arkytior. He’d _held_ her, and smiled, and pretended to be happy even though he‘d wanted to scream at the Doctor for having a family without him. There had been a moment that day, when their eyes had met, when he’d thought that Theta had felt the same, but it had slipped through his fingers like water. 

Theta always had so much love in his hearts, it was only natural that Koschei couldn’t have held his attention forever. There wasn’t _that_ much to love about him. If anything. 

It’s clear as day that the Doctor’s love for him has faded, anyway. Why else would she have abandoned him to the Nazis? That was the action of a cold, vindictive, _vengeful_ person- not the warm, soft Theta Sigma he’d always helplessly adored. 

He watches the Doctor wander across the Piazza to the marble lions, glancing around and then removing a chisel from his pocket. He chips off a tiny sample and sweeps it into a vial, tucking it into his pocket. 

So much for _look but don’t touch_. That was Theta all over, the Master thinks, smiling, and then the smile fades as another wave of hot, aching nostalgia rushes over him. 

The Doctor seems to be everywhere he turns. He can’t escape them in the sleepiest of villages, or foreign countries, or- _anywhere_. 

He may as well move back to London. 

——

_**London, England, 2005** _

For decades, the only glimpses of the Doctor that he catches are fleeting, brief. Every time, they sting the Master’s hearts, make him shake and grit his teeth with pain. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to see them again without tearing up. 

The new millennium arrives without incident. He’s on the home stretch now; fifteen more years, and he’ll see his Doctor. He can enact the plan he’s been seething over for decades. Tell her everything, _break_ her utterly. 

He’s out on a groceries run one evening when he spots a man with a leather jacket and close-cropped hair leaning against a railing overlooking the Thames. This is a fairly normal sight, except for one thing- the man is radiating _grief_. Massive, uncontained grief, in a way that only a telepathic being is capable of doing. 

It catches the Master off-guard, and he stumbles, losing his balance and sprawling on the pavement. 

The man turns around at the scuffle, and they make eye contact, and the Master knows who this is _immediately_. 

He has to clap a hand over his mouth to stop him from blurting out ‘Doctor?’, because he doesn’t recognise this body, but it’s unmistakeably him. Right after the Time War, if the sadness is anything to go by. 

“I’m okay,” he says, but the Doctor offers him a hand anyway. The Master eyes it, and then takes it, hauling himself up. “...Thank you.” 

“‘Course, no problem. What happened?” Oh. This Doctor is northern, too. He thinks of his Doctor‘s cheery Yorkshire accent, and something curls in his stomach. 

“I just, just...just tripped over my own feet,” he says, stumbling for an excuse. It’s hard to focus under the weight of that sadness, and he wishes he’d spent more time at the Academy teaching Theta how to put up telepathic shields. 

“Ah. That happens to me sometimes. Not sure yet if it happens this time around- still test driving this thing.” The Doctor grins at him. “Definitely not hurt?” 

“No, no- I’m fine.” It occurs to the Master that he’s still holding the Doctor’s wrist, and so he drops it. “You, um...are you alright?” 

It’s a stupid question. But he can’t help himself. 

The Doctor seems a little taken aback, and meets the Master’s eyes; piercing blue to wide, innocent brown. He projects ‘normal human’ as best he can. It’s a skill he’s gotten quite good at over the years. 

“Fine, thank you,” the Doctor says, and doesn’t question him any further. “D’you know the way to Henrik’s department store? Got a return to make.” 

He hefts a plastic bag that the Master hasn’t noticed until now. There’s something heavy and rectangular in there that does not look like clothes. 

“Two blocks that way, then make a right, then a left.” He frowns at the bag, and then at the Doctor, and gets grinned at again for his troubles. 

“Fantastic. Thank you. Cheerio!” 

The Doctor speeds off. The Master stands silently for a minute, kicks the railing so hard that a section of it buckles, and then he stalks away to go do his grocery shopping. 

Half an hour later, Henrik’s department store explodes. He isn’t even remotely surprised. 

Maybe it’s getting easier to see the Doctor again. Maybe 2020 won’t be so bad. 

——

_**London, England, 2015** _

He shouldn’t be spying on himself. But the Master can’t help it. He’s dressed in a dark hoodie, sat on a bench on the street he’d lived on back when he’d worked at MI5. 

He buries his face in his mobile phone, telepathic shields turned up to the maximum, and he watches as a slightly younger, clean-shaven version of himself strolls off down the street towards Thames House. The Master can feel his own past self’s irritation at having to play _nice_ radiating even through the shields he has up. 

Once his younger self is out of sight, the Master stands up, glancing towards his own old flat. His TARDIS is in there. It would be easy to steal it, but- he knows that would ruin everything. Only five years left to go now, anyway. 

Before the temptation to break his own timeline can rise any higher, he hurries off towards the nearest high street and goes to buy himself the largest, strongest coffee he can find. He needs it. He _always_ needs it. 

He’s just walking out of Starbucks with a ridiculously large cup clutched in one hand when he quite literally bumps into the Doctor. 

_The_ Doctor. Definitive. No descriptions needed, because she’s his. 

Paris flashes before his eyes, and the Master has to stop himself from crushing the cup and spilling boiling coffee all over himself. This is not easy. This hurts. This hurts deep, _deep_ in his stomach; an angry, miserable, betrayed sort of hurt. 

“O! I thought I saw you in there!” She beams at him, delighted, and then frowns. “You grew a beard?” 

It occurs to the Master after several seconds of staring that he needs to answer, and he needs to answer _well_. 

“Yes! Just, er, trying something out. Had a few days off work,” he says, forcing himself to smile in that sweet, innocent way he’d always used on her. 

“Oh. Dunno how I feel about it,” the Doctor says, wrinkling her nose. She grabs his arm, dragging him over to one of the tables outside the coffee shop. “Haven’t seen you in forever!” 

Seventy two years, on his end. So close to making it the whole seventy seven, and now he feels like he is on _fire_. Her presence is far too much. 

“Yeah. Been way too long,” he agrees, tipping his head back and downing half a cup of scalding hot coffee as if that would somehow help. All it does is add some physical pain to his mental pain, but the Master welcomes the opportunity to focus on something other than his own head screaming at him. 

He remembers the howling wind up on the Eiffel Tower. He remembers the Doctor’s glittering grin, the way she’d ducked out of his grasp and slipped into the elevator. 

He remembers fruitless attempts at bargaining, a gun to his head, an unceremonious frogmarch, and the even more unceremonious arson of a locked police station he’d escaped from three hours later. The screams had been delicious, but they hadn’t quelled the fire in his chest even a little bit. 

He sets his coffee cup down on the table just a little too hard. The Doctor frowns. 

“You doing alright, O? You seem a bit- off.” 

“I’m okay,” he says immediately. Too fast. She frowns a little deeper, and digs in her pocket for the sonic. “No! Really- I’m okay. I just...didn’t get much sleep last night.” He grins wryly, and motions to his enormous coffee cup. “That’s as much espresso as they’d sell me, and its barely making a dent.” 

It’s amazing, what the threat of discovery can do for one’s acting skills. 

The Doctor relaxes, and reaches out to pat him comfortingly on the knee. The Master manages not to flinch. Barely. 

“Um- where are your companions? I’ve so been looking forward to meeting them,” he lies. 

“Oh, I sent them off shopping. There was a...a thing, I don’t remember what, that Ryan wanted. Might’ve been something football-y.” She waves a hand dismissively, and the Master gets the feeling that she was supposed to be shopping with them, and she’d snuck away instead. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding slowly, and he takes another long drink of coffee. “Everything alright with you, Doctor?” 

The Doctor scrunches her face up into a noncommittal sort of look, and makes a vague, high-pitched noise. “I’m survivin’,” she says, putting on a cheery smile. “All the better for seeing you, O.” 

He isn’t entirely sure if he wants to kiss her or kill her. 

The rest of his coffee goes down slowly, and the Doctor insists on chatting the whole time. It’s painful, when he wants to scream in her face, wants to break down crying and beg her to tell him _why_. When he’s done with his drink, she sticks out her hand, and offers to take him on a walk around the city. 

The Master is a coward and entirely unashamed of it for the moment, so he fakes a phone call. 

“Sorry,” he says, gazing at the Doctor’s hand as if there’s nothing in the world he’d rather do than take it. Honestly, that’s kind of true. “Work rang. They need me. Got some very important...data. To analyse.” He nods firmly. 

“Oh.” The Doctor’s hand drops to her side. “Okay, then. Never mind. Um- I’ll text you later, okay? And I’ll see you again soon. Properly. Not on your day off, I’ll whisk you away at work so they can all see I’m real and you’re right about aliens. I’m nice like that.” She grins at him. 

So nice she’d stolen his TARDIS and abandoned him. 

She is so much more than he could ever be, and he hates how much he still wants to take her hand. He’d drop to his knees and plead just for the chance to hold it, to press his lips to a knuckle. He _despises_ himself for that. 

“I’ll see you soon. Definitely,” the Master promises, standing up, and he flashes a smile at the Doctor and hurries away. 

He doesn’t go back to his flat for two days after that. The Master prowls the streets, and drinks, and seethes, and it’s only when every muscle in his legs _burns_ from exhaustion that he finally walks back to his temporary home, and curls up on the mattress on the floor, and cries. 

Everything about this is difficult. He’s run into so many different versions of the Doctor over the years, and it always hurts. But nothing hurts like _this_. 

The Doctor is so many people to him. She’s his best friend. The only person he’s ever loved. His enemy. His creator. The person who left him to die. 

She surrounds him, makes him feel trapped even though he has the whole world to run through. He can’t escape her. 

The Master thinks forward to his plans; how he’ll break her. She’ll understand how he feels, then. He wants to loop around her life just as she curls into his; he wants to bleed himself into every facet of her existence, wants it to _hurt_. 

Her past selves have all been all blissfully unaware of how much they’ve made the last seven decades hurt for him, but the Master doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t want to escape her. He never has. 

He wants to _ruin_ her. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is long and rambly and maybe a bit weirdly structured, I’m not sure?? I really hope you enjoyed it! comments and kudos are very greatly appreciated <3


End file.
